Wicked Game
by ginnyharry.crucio
Summary: Will what happened in the morgue, stay in the morgue? Brash Victorian Sherlolly fluff.
1. Chapter 1

I

* * *

"Show me."

"No."

"Show me, Watson."

"There's nothing to see, Holmes."

"What are you two big boys woofing about?" Mrs. Hudson walked into the living room with tea, even as she watched Sherlock anxiously rock back and forth on his chair against the morning light, and John on the couch opposite, sniggering, flipping through a dog-eared notebook he called his crime journal. She chastised the detective, "Give it a rest, Sherlock, or you shall definitely break the chair."

"I have told you enough times, Mrs. Hudson, that I'm not too fond of first-name terms of endearment."

"Your name is hardly a term of endearment, dear," she said, as she placed the tray on the table, "by the way; don't allow me to sway your fight off the point."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, all while she giggled and John guffawed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Holmes, trust me, it isn't what you're thinking it is."

"Well, I'm seldom wrong," he snapped, as he caught John unaware and dramatically flung himself forth, snatching the notebook out of the doctor's hands. He flicked to last page and glared up at him, " _Sexual Che-mystery of Holmes and Hooper_?"

"Well..."

"A bit too out there for your prudish Victorians, don't you think?"

"In my defence, I don't plan on publishing it," John hummed, scratching his moustache.

"Hooper?" asked Mrs. Hudson, "The pretty man of the morgue?"

John furrowed his eyebrows at her. "How do you know he– uh, him, Mrs. Hudson?"

"It's a long story, dear John."

" _Will what happened in the morgue, stay in the morgue_?" Sherlock read the scribble, rolling his eyes so hard they might've turned inside out, " _The queen's favourite detective and_ – bloody hell, Watson, are your novels not selling enough that you had to resort to third-page gossip?"

"It's called a joke, Holmes."

"What happened in the morgue?" the landlady interrupted excitedly. It elicited another laugh from the doctor, even as the detective went ahead to check the temperature of the eyeballs roasting on a spit (one of his usual, unsurprising experiments that nobody cared about as long as word didn't spread and they did not stink up the whole house), playing deaf.

"A joke that makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense. You are obsessed about her."

"Her?" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson in between. Sherlock gestured at her to pipe down. He rose to his feet and trotted briskly around the fireplace, hands locked at the back, "I think I've made it quite clear that I'm married to my work."

"Well, then I guess it's bad news for your work that a separation is on the way," replied John cheekily.

"You really think I'm sexually attracted to the woman in a man's mask, with an exceptionally stupid assistant, both of whom I cannot tolerate for more than an hour?"

"You cannot tolerate Hooper because you're afraid you won't be the man with the last word in the room."

Sherlock scoffed derisively. "Watson, I believe a more pressing matter for you would be the fact that your wife is out late hours with my brother, probably planning a French invasion."

"Don't change the subject, Holmes."

"For the last time, I'm _not_ obsessed with Hooper."

"And even more so ever since it came to your knowledge that she's a woman."

"Well well," Mrs. Hudson chimed happily, "You know what they say. It's a fact universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of no emotion must be in a want of a morgue-keeping wife." Sherlock was positively fuming by then, much to others' amusement; he shot her a death glance and she retreated to the kitchen.

John was slightly afraid that triggering the joke any further might actually transform Sherlock into a fire-sniffing dragon, so he let go, picking a newspaper that lay beside and pretending to read. It was yesterday's, and hardly interesting.

Out of the blue, like a wild thought, Sherlock muttered, as if almost to himself, even as he peeked out of the window, his eagle nose pressing against the glass pane, "We have a client coming. And as a matter of fact, I've always known she is a woman."

"But will what happened in the morgue, stay in the morgue?"

"Another word, Watson, and I might just throw you out of this damned window."

* * *

 **Hello, people. This is my first Sherlock fanfic and I'm just stretching my toes out there. Please review and tell me how it was. Next chapters will be longer and unapologetically Sherlolly!**


	2. Chapter 2

II

* * *

In all honesty, Sherlock did always know she was a woman. In fact, he had known her before she was Hooper. When she was Molly.

It was one of those rare visits to his brother's casa for the league of extraordinarily silent gentlemen two years ago, wanting some information over the missing Mr. McLaughlin case which Mycroft had straight-up refused, and had left Sherlock looking for crooks in the wall.

"Would you like some tea, sir?"

Turning around, he found a mawkish young lady with an odd taste in clothes (the silk of her scarf and the lace on the cuffs of the gown were offensively mismatched), addressing him with a nervous, giggly grin. He groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was a frill-clad giggling distraction. This was not the kind of talk he needed while figuring out a way to break into his brother's office.

"No, thank you."

"You're the famous Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

"It happens that I missed the obvious, thank you again."

He had expected her to be a little bothered by his curtness. It worked like a knee-jerk defence mechanism, came out partially processed. Unexpectedly, it hadn't shooed off the lady yet. She was either too thick or too smart or too bored. Speaking in hindsight, he always thought much like John, she was a curious combination of all three, what with a pinch of clumsy.

"You know, you should have a sidekick who – who writes the stories of your adventures."

He briskly turned at her as soon as she uttered the eye-roll inducing statement. He looked up, quite irritably, when he noticed the ink blots on her cuffs and the slight dust on the elbows, and the conclusion that she was forcing a conversation out of him pretty much because she had nothing better to do, which meant she might have a job – _here_. The tiny bell in his head clunked.

His lips curled up into a slight smile. "Do you work here, ma'am?"

 _Ma'am_. He scoffed at himself. Making a lady feel like she was a fifty year old woman was certainly a good way to butter out information. He was getting lamer by the day. Although, looking her right in the eye got her unnerved again, and gave him his upper hand, as she stared away into the spring sunlight, visible patches of red across her cheeks.

"I dust the records, sometimes. It's not a regular work. My father brought me here."

"Good, good," said Sherlock, hardly listening, "That is a flattering hat. What's your name?"

"Molly Hooper. I'm Hooper's daughter, but then that's – um, pretty obvious."

He never registered any of the random blabbering. Faking a smile, he gazed at her again. "So, Molly, is there any chance you dusted a big brown sealed file that goes by the name McLaughlin?"

"No, but I remember cutting up his body."

"You – _what_?"

"I mean, um, I mean, his _corpse_!" she corrected, noticeably flustered, "That didn't mean anything –"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock cut her off midway. The imagery of a woman in a hat and frills and a corset handling a cut-up corpse was rather outrageously hilarious in his head. Was she joking? He cleared his throat and shoved the thought aside, "So, your part-time businesses involve dusting precious records and cutting dead bodies?" He felt stupid asking it, and he never liked feeling stupid, but he required a double assurance.

"My father died, so I had to fill in for a day," she whimpered, her tone full of striking matter-of-fact, "They had no option." She continued to babble the history of it, but he tuned it out. This was interesting. And very useful. Clearly, the pink patches on her cheeks and her hand continuously roaming around her hair spoke enough that she liked him. Romantically, sexually, for the lack of better words. She was the silver lining he needed in this sinking case.

"... And I'm tired of the innumerable pursuits."

Sherlock pretended to understand the ordeal, catching up on her last sentence, "Would you like some permanence?"

She furrowed her eyebrows, "A woman keeping a morgue?" while she let out a derisive chuckle, "Like the worker-men would listen."

"I see. Would you like some disguise?"

"What do you mean?"

His lips arched into a lopsided grin as he took her hand, kissed it and made a beeline for the ornate exit door, "I'll see you again... Hooper."

* * *

Reiterating, he was not obsessed about her. In any manner.

Thinking back, his first chance-encounter with Hooper was still better than what he had with John Watson, when he had instinctively gushed out John's military and medical history with a deaf ear to the moustached man's constant swearing in the background. In a matter of a year, what Sherlock saw was overcompensation: the fragile, stumbling gait in the gown gave way to a suit-clad, pelvis-thrusting, arms-akimbo swagger; the tight bun and lace hat turned to manly curls and a moustache so remarkably fake that the visible gum lining hurt his eye; the stuttering, nervous small talk grew into brash and alarmingly witty wisecracks, as Molly became Hooper.

Hooper was not too good at being a normal man. But then, neither was he. Maybe John should put his foot down and hand them some homework one day.

"Skinned alive in some kind of punishment spectacle, this one," she had said, ripping off her leather gloves as she briskly paced forth. John hurtled to keep up with them. She halted at another heap of corpses, "And the five ladies over here, Cupid's disease."

"Cupid's disease?" repeated John.

"You know, great pox, Syphilis, whatever you call it. And that one over there, tried to stab himself, fell in the water, bled and died."

"Promiscuous killer commits suicide?" John, as usual, made a ridiculous statement.

"Makes no sense," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Yes, you would know," scoffed Hooper under her breath, "virgin."

"Excuse me?"

"What?"

"Did you just call me a virgin?"

"Maybe."

"Can I ask, why the irrelevant comment?"

"I had an opportunity to mock you and didn't want to pass it up," she deadpanned, "Didn't humour you too well, did I? Learn to take a joke, Holmes."

Sherlock gave her a casual glare. "Alright. Let's finish the task before more of your kind words and Anderson's face corrupt into the progress."

The brawls and snaps were regular. One time the case was mind-numbingly dull, and Watson had strolled out for some fresh air, and Lestrade's sideburns made for ample diversion from Hooper's usual tacky disguise. He had whispered into her ear, "Take it from the master. Don't overdo it."

She was surprised. "Overdo what?"

"Everything."

She bit her lip and chuckled. Not very Hooper.

"I guess I have a flair."

* * *

Yesterday was odd. It had been a month since Sherlock resolved the infamous Emelia Ricoletti mystery, and their secret society had progressively unravelled and faded into oblivion. He had to step down and hold back Hooper from revealing her identity; one martyr was enough, he had said, some needed to step back and reignite the war. She had been quieter since, in fact, there was nothing in the air apart from occasional deductions and John clearing his throat.

"Ah, the tension," John had commented as soon as Hooper went out of earshot.

"There's no tension," snapped the detective, while he pointed at the marks on the corpse's hands, "Self-surgery."

"If you say so."

He turned at John, eyebrows raised. "If I say so?"

"Come on, Holmes, the tension is so palpable I can bake an omelette on it."

Watson loved to nag upon this particular subject. Sherlock decided to play deaf; as if he didn't already have enough disruptions obstructing his work that he wanted to hear John making breakfast metaphors. He excused himself and headed towards the dungeon.

"Molly."

Hooper jumped and turned. Her shoulders relaxed at the sight of the tall, brooding figure. She glared at him. "Don't call me that, in here."

"You can paint it on the walls for all I care, and people will still not believe it."

"Except Watson. He sees it right through."

"He does see things right through, doesn't he."

"You'd think."

"You still don't think I'm right?"

She looked at the cold, mossy floor and sighed. Folded her arms and came up to him. She knew what he was talking about. "We just tried to launch a violent war against the whole – _creed_ – of yours. Why would you wish to save me?"

"Because you are very useful to me."

"...Because I am very useful to you. Why doesn't it surprise me?"

"Important, _important_ is the word, sorry," his lips parted into a somewhat sly, nonchalant grin, "And like my exceptionally arrogant brother had said, it's a war we must lose." She grinned back.

"I read your new story," she hummed, slightly mimicking his tone, "As usual there were two points of interest – actually, just one this time. Did the Woman _really_ beat you?"

"She tricked me. If you call that beating."

"She whipped you."

"Watson sensationalises."

"You like her?"

"Watson romanticises."

She chuckled at that. "So how does it work? Once you're in love, everything clouds in front of your eyes, your deductions blur and your mind palace crumbles like a castle of cards?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I – I don't know love. It is a facade."

"So is my double life," replied Molly, pensive all of a sudden as she stared into the tunnelling darkness of the dungeon and took a long deep breath of the stale air, "I'm getting married. My mother picked out a Monsieur; a professor or so I've heard, haven't seen him yet, must be some straddling foreigner with a bunch of Parisian lapdogs... and I've no idea why I'm telling you all of it."

Sherlock didn't know what it was, but it felt like something invisible from the roof fell off and dropped against his chest. He cleared his throat again. "I hope you will be very happy, Molly Hooper."

The way she gazed into his eyes unnerved him; her eyes were glistening against the cold sunlight that came in through the only window in the hall. She stepped closer. In normal circumstances he would've backed off, but his legs had melted into the floor. He hadn't encountered something like this before – it was blinding, pounding, indecipherable. Additionally, he had a pillar backing him, so there was no scope of escape.

"You're so blind, Holmes," she whispered.

"You don't have a good record either," he muttered impulsively – this quirk to have the very last word, which John regularly groaned at, "You can only hope your Frenchman doesn't turn out to be another – "

"Psychopath?"

"Psychopath it is."

It worked like a chemical reaction. An incredibly complex reaction that didn't go by the rules. His heart was throbbing. Her fingers were now tracing the buttons of his vest. Her movements were unpredictable. "Say Sherlock," she began, her tone so alarmingly inquisitive it sent him tattering into his mental encyclopaedias for resort; unfortunately everything was blocked out, "Did your doctor friend ever give you a bristly moustached kiss?"

* * *

 **I'm so ecstatic about the reaction I got in the last chapter. You guys are the best! Do review and tell me how it's going, honestly asking, because in all frankness, I have no idea.**


End file.
